The bells rung out in the night,
A mist hung over the ghastly sight,
In the twilight of Tallaght blight.
A man limped in the alley light,
Coughing as he fell to his right.
O'Rourke and the lads stood grimaced,
Overcoats coated the hearts on their sleeves.
The pressing answers he hadn't the slimmest,
For the pack of common thieves.
They pulled him up and punched him loose,
Those memories and years of useless abuse,
He wished he could take back.
He gulped but wouldn't crack,
Hoped he could see them again.
Then told himself it wasn't in vain.
There was his wife - Sinead McCann,
The lovely lass he met in the rain,
Under the door of The Lucky's.
Brushed her hair and kissed in the breeze,
Too many more frightful moons ago,
A love so foolish to hold loose and let go.
His son Liam was ten years old,
Made from the same mould.
Took the brunt and left in the cold,
After nights of drinks and fury.
His daughter Aisling rolled her eyes,
Thought her dad didn't know a thing.
Fifteen years old – felt chastised.
How Monty wronged them so,
He realised after another blow.
He fell to his knees and spat out a tooth,
Blood ran down his chin and onto his shirt.
He looked up at his old mate Mickey,
Recalling the fun bloom of youth.
He could tell on his face it hurt,
Mickey fought to keep dry eyes.
O'Rourke aggressively lifted him,
“No more of these lies, Monty.”
I won't give up 'til I have the truth.”
“I don't know what you mean,
I don't know a fucking thing.”
Monty was honest but knew,
The fate O'Rourke's eyes drew.
Green and weathered all through,
Left Monty feeling awfully blue.
In the back of the van with blinds over his eyes,
His mouth tied shut to ruffle his sullied cries,
Prayers he said for his family had said a lot.
He never turned to the skies for his problems,
But thrifty Monty dearly lost the plot.
These were the most desperate of times.
They took him out into the crisp woods,
Threw him down into the slippery dirt.
Small wind let trees sit still and lifeless,
Timeless eyes idle and baring witness.
Monty looked up at O'Rourke's haunting figure,
A stoic silhouette formed out of headlights.
The lads stood behind him in the shadows.
“This is your last chance,”
O'Rourke reached into his trench-coat,
The silver caught Monty's bloodshot glance.
“Are you going to sadly sink or hopefully float?
You stole from the unfortunate of little wealth,
What do you have to say of yourself?”
“I did nothing at all,”
Monty begged but didn't ball.
He didn't have the strength to stand,
But refused to die a cowardly man.
“Just tell my family I love them.”
O'Rourke lifted the gun and stepped forward,
A solemn scene of tragedy he'd seen before.
He was battered, bloodied, left in ruins,
Kicked in the ribs and shot in the head.
Dropping to his knees was big Mickey Finn,
A man should never see a friend shot dead.
O'Rourke struggled with a single tear,
Wiped it off and turned around aware,
Men had shovels and flashlights in hand.
They held their head up and kept quiet,
Stepped silently and to dig they began.
They left dear old Monty in that dirt pit,
Then carried on to their heart's permit.